


he's unreal / exactly how it feels

by neville



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes Feels, Dreams, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mostly Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Sweet, Unrequited Love, bruce is in charge of the avengers! fuck yeah u funky lil scientist, bucky is in unrequited love with steve, bucky tries to pretend he doesnt like bruce, but no professor hulk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: Bucky’s been thinking about it for days.When he shuts his eyes, he sees the image in his mind again: Bruce de-Hulking in the corridor, the calming of his body, the sight of the concentric circles marked on his hip. The same concentric circles that are on Bucky’s back. The moment of realisation that of all the people in the world, of all of them, that it’s Bruce -Bruce- who’s destined as Bucky’s soulmate.He’s stupidly mad about it, because he wants it to be Steve, has always wanted it to be Steve, and now Steve is gone and it’s the scientist with the dumb grin who’s somehow been left in charge of the remaining Avengers. And he knows he shouldn’t be angry, and that Bruce hasn’t done anything wrong, but… he’sBruce. He’s not really what Bucky had expected.And he can’t stop thinking about it.





	he's unreal / exactly how it feels

_ The whole of your life, you’ve loved one person, one ideal: you love his muscles, his voice, his hair and the sound of his laugh, the way the two of you used to sit up all night talking about nothing in particular and the memories of eating hot dogs on pier edges at the kind of fairs they just don’t have anymore. You love him so much that you ache just from how much you _ feel _ it. When you close your eyes, it’s him you think about. When you think about your future, he’s there, too, always: because you can’t see a world without him in it. It’s simple. _

_ There are two moments in your life with him that you wonder how you’re going to continue to live: _

  * __The moment where you’re both eighteen and your soulmate marks surface and the zig-zags on his wrist don’t match the circles on your back; __
  * __and the moment he leaves you because somewhere in history there’s the woman with those same zig-zags and he wants her more than he wants to stay with you. And you want to say that that’s fair, but you’ve never really thought that, because you sit up at night when you can’t sleep and you feel the absence of him like a knife in your chest. __

_ You still love him when he’s gone, and you love him when you’re angry; it’s _ why _ you’re angry, really, because you’ve always felt so strongly about him and now he’s just gone. He left with a soft smile and told you not to do anything stupid until he came back, which really means never do anything stupid, but you know you can’t stick to that because you’re already wallowing and you miss him and you’re mad. You still think about him all the time. He’s like an earworm. Sometimes you think in his voice, or when you read books, you imagine that characters are him. _

_ And then there’s the moment when you find that person, the person who has on his hip the same concentric circles that you have on your back, and you’re still in love with Steve. _

  


Bucky doesn’t want to ask; really, he doesn’t, because he always feels like an inconvenience when he does, but it’s been days and his arm won’t stop malfunctioning and he’s pretty sure that that rocket blast really _ did _ fuck it up. And he’s going to ruin dinner tonight if he doesn’t do something about it, so he ventures to the basement of the Facility/Compound/whatever the Avengers place is supposed to be called now, and knocks on the door of Bruce’s lab. 

He’s not sure whether he feels amused or guilty when he realises that Bruce is fast asleep, and he starts awake, gesturing for Bucky to come in. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Bucky asks. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but it’s almost a way of saying hello to other Avengers now: there’s no need for greetings when there’s the option of chastising a colleague’s sleep schedule. Bruce in particular doesn’t sleep often.

“Not really,” Bruce says apologetically, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. Did you?” 

“A little.” Bucky takes a seat; it feels awkward looming over Bruce, who’s short enough as is. “My arm was injured the last time we were out and now it’s acting up. Do you mind looking at it?”

“Oh,” Bruce says, visibly perking up. “Not at all.” This is the kind of thing that he thrives on, Bucky knows: science and engineering and thinking and working. Bruce has never been as good as this sort of building thing as Tony or Shuri, but in the wake of Tony’s death he’s been working double: he’s been learning mechanical engineering, poring over Tony’s notes and taking apart everything he can and putting it back together to figure out how it works. Bucky doesn’t know if he finds it annoying, endearing, or both, that Bruce is able to pull himself back together like this, after everything. 

Detaching Bucky’s arm has become an easier job since it was replaced in Wakanda: they weren’t able to sort the mess of nerves where his metal arm begins, but the arm detaches at the top of the bicep for any maintenance. It’s a little fidgety, but Bruce just squints through his glasses and persists. 

“You didn’t get hurt anywhere else, did you?” Bruce asks as he finally removes Bucky’s metal arm, setting it on the table. 

“No,” Bucky says. 

“That’s good. Um, I don’t know how bad the damage is, but maybe give me a day or two to fix this. Will you be alright?”

It is not even _ fair _that Bruce is so nice like this, because it’s Bucky’s instinct to hate him. “I might need an extra pair of hands at dinner. You ever made lasagne?” 

“No, but I’m not a bad cook. Come get me if you can’t find anyone else to help.” Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles. Bucky curses the fact that he _ knows _he’ll be here again this evening; nobody else is liable to help him cook, after all. But he nods, and smiles back, and heads up the stairs. 

  


_ The person who’s meant to be the love of your life doesn’t feel like the love of your life at all. _

_ He’s small and private and hides years of trauma behind a patient smile; he would trust you more than himself. You see him almost every morning bleary-eyed over a cup of coffee and wonder what you are supposed to like about him when he can never be Steve. He is not brave, and his words don’t come easy, and his laugh is always held back as if he’s scared of hearing himself enjoying something. _

_ Once, you saw him watching _ Star Wars _ with Carol Danvers, and they were both bellowing with glee as the Death Star was destroyed and you wondered why _you. 

_ You don’t think you can love him because he isn’t Steve. _

_ The things you hate about him come easier to mind than the things you like. He annoys you. It’s your instinct. _

_ He insists on wearing old-school oven gloves, just like you, and bakes the lasagne into an old family dish. He says it’s his grandma’s, and tells you as you cook that she was his idol growing up: she was always proactive, doing the family DIY and the plumbing without question or the thought that she couldn’t. He says that he liked that about her, her willingness to get things done. He says it’s why he has seven PhDs, and he laughs when he says that and for a moment you hear the laugh reverb with warmth from his belly. His eyes light up when he remembers her, and when he takes his first bite years of memories seem to flash across his face. They do for you, too. Mostly you think of Steve, and you curse the hip of Bruce Banner. _

_ “Seconds?” he asks. _

_ You nod. _

  


Bruce brings Bucky his arm back two days later, also bringing multiple apologies that it took him this long but that he wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong and he had to consult Shuri several times via Skype before he finally pinpointed the issue and figured out how to repair it; but it should be fine, he says, and helps Bucky reattach it. His tongue flicks out in concentration, pressed against his bottom lip. 

Yes, that is definitely annoying, Bucky decides. Not as annoying as Sam, sure, but still. 

“How does that feel?” Bruce asks, sitting back and pushing his glasses up so that they sit tentatively in the crest of his curls. Bucky moves his arm; it feels normal. It had never been _ bad _ under HYDRA, not really (they needed it to work well, after all), but the new one from Wakanda has always been so much better, smoother, more efficient. 

“Good,” says Bucky. 

“Great,” Bruce says. “Um, so, the usual - make sure everything is working fine before the mission on Friday, because I don’t want anything to happen to you because of an oversight on my part. Let me know if you need any more adjustments. It’s no problem. Oh, and I had the heating fixed in your room.” 

For the past week, the heating in Bucky’s room has been at full blast and he’s taken to sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms and leaving the windows open in his own all day. He didn’t even know that Bruce _ knew _, never mind had taken to fixing it. He nods. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

“No problem. Tell me if it happens again.” 

It’s just - it’s not fair. It’s not fair that Bruce isn’t Steve, and it’s not fair that Bruce smiles at Bucky like he hangs the stars every time they see each other, and it’s not fair that Bucky is never going to be good enough for either of them. It isn’t fair that Bucky sees Steve when he closes his eyes, and it isn’t fair that when he opens them, he sees Bruce. 

  


_ You are in a dancehall. You’re wearing a suit, and it’s nice, but it itches around your neck because the shirt is too tight because it’s the same shirt you’ve been wearing since you were fourteen and you certainly aren’t that small anymore. Around you, couples sway to the swinging jazz of a big band playing Glenn Miller tunes. These are the songs you love, the songs you remember most. You remember Steve and the way he could never find a girl, but he isn’t here. _

_ The song ends and there’s applause and cheers from the crowd, a little excited and rowdy; you suspect everyone’s been enjoying their drinks tonight, and you smile. The trombonist announces something, but you don’t hear what: instead, the next thing you hear is the piano playing syncopated chords. The pianist is short, cute, his shirt ruffled. His hair is curly. His hands don’t seem comfortable on the keys. _

_ There’s nothing there to elevate his voice, and yet it carries itself perfectly across the hall to you. His voice is rough, not perfect; every now and then he seems to be half a tone off, but he’s earnest. The trombonist harmonises with him, sometimes. _

I will always think of you, _ his voice says. _I see your face when each day’s through. 

_ The people in the hall around you seem to disappear as you walk, closer and closer to the band; none of them are playing except him, simply standing holding their instruments or tapping their feet to his rhythms. _ I keep trying to escape this town. _ You can sense that he’s noticed you, even though he’s still looking at the keys. _And I just might; maybe tomorrow, not tonight. 

_ He hits the last chord and stands up to bow; people around you reform to cheer, and he grins, sinking down to the floor in gratitude. When he stands back up, he looks at you for a moment, and you swear the edge of his smile deepens, and then he sits back at his piano. The band launch into The Mysterious Axman’s Jazz, and you are back in the middle of the crowd and not so close at all. _

_ You miss the sound of his piano, and the truth in his voice. _

  


Bucky doesn’t expect to find anybody in the shooting gallery; least of all Bruce Banner, who’s standing surprisingly square-shouldered and facing off against a shot-scattered target. He pauses when he sees Bucky, lowering his gun. 

“You shoot?” Bucky asks. 

“I’m trying,” Bruce shrugs. “I just feel useless when I’m not the Hulk. Like there’s nothing I can do for the team, or for the civilians, or anybody; I just have to sit there in the jet watching it all happen. I want to help. I know I won’t be able to at the rate that I’m learning, but…” He sighs. “It’s worth a shot, right? Learning how to shoot. How to aim.” 

“Sure,” says Bucky. He didn’t know it was possible to feel useless when you’re also a killing machine; but he supposes that sometimes he too feels useless, despite everything. There are moments in missions where he doesn’t feel like a hero. He sees his picture in the newspaper and he’s being called a _ monster _ , a _ terrorist _; Bruce had spent an afternoon at a press conference arguing for Bucky’s inclusion in the Avengers, and Bucky still watches the video over and over on his laptop. He’s not great with technology - he’s an old man, really, but it’s not hard to watch a video. “You’re not useless, though.” 

Bruce laughs lightly. “Thanks.”

Bucky knows he shouldn’t, and that his internal anger is very mad at him for this, but he asks Bruce if he’d like some pointers. Bruce looks delighted. 

He still flinches every time he shoots, but he’s not too bad once Bucky gives him advice: on stance, on aiming, on holding firm against the recoil. He doesn’t feel that flush of attraction he always sees on television when he touches Bruce’s shoulders to push them into place: that isn’t a _ thing _ \- he’s doing his job. Teaching Bruce to shoot is an asexual and professional experience. 

No; the moment that Bucky realises that he’s a little bit fucked is when Bruce’s elbow brushes against his in the elevator up to the kitchen, and Bruce smiles bashfully, and all of Bucky’s senses betray his mind. He pushes them away. 

It’s takeout night that night, and according to the rotating schedule of cuisines, Italian - the pasta is Bruce’s and, as he often does, he skirts watching television with the others to go back to his room. Bucky has found out since, through Bruce’s own admission, that he just likes to watch television on his own, where it’s quieter: he only joins in when they’re watching his favourite movies. 

“Do you mind?” Bucky asks as he follows Bruce down the corridor. 

“No,” Bruce says. “Not at all.”

They watch a movie about the Zodiac killer - Bucky hasn’t heard of that one, because he’s not exactly been researching modern crimes for fear that they were him, but the film is gripping and enlightening and when he talks to Bruce about it afterwards he gestures with his hands. “I can’t believe they never caught him,” Bucky is saying, caught up in his own sudden passion for the case. “That’s crazy. All these years later…” 

“They caught an old serial killer recently,” Bruce says, tapping something into his laptop. “The Golden State Killer. They got his DNA through one of those websites that analyses your genetics and tells you how much part Viking you are or whatever. It’s really interesting.” He’s absorbed, too, Bucky can tell - the tongue is out and his eyes are slightly narrowed in concentration. His glasses come out from his shirt pocket and settle on the end of his nose. Then he hears the sound of Bruce click his tongue, and he’s sitting up straight, his eyes wide. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about if this would bother you.” 

Bucky, despite himself, is touched. “It’s fine,” he says. “You’re right. This _ is _ really interesting. Keep talking.”

Bruce flushes a little. 

He skims through whatever it is he’s reading a little longer. “So one of the detectives upload the DNA profile of the Golden State Killer to a consumer genetics website, where they were able to identify a couple of his distant relatives. A little bit of genealogy and a family tree later, they narrowed it down to Joseph James DeAngelo. He’s still awaiting trial.” 

“If they were able to connect me physically to more of the crimes that I committed,” Bucky says, “would they be able to try me?” 

“Not without a fight,” Bruce says with a wiry smile. “If - that is an _ if _, by the way, because I wouldn’t let anyone just drag you off to court - you were put on trial, we would do our best to have you let off. None of what happened was your fault.” He shuts the lid of his laptop; surprisingly. “And if everything goes wrong, my cousin is a great lawyer.” 

Bucky sits on that knowledge for a moment. 

“Why are you so nice to me?” he asks. “Everyone else is scared of me. As if I could still hurt them.” 

“If I was scared of you, then I’d have to be terrified of myself. And for years I _ was _ , but… there was a point where I just had to decide that I trusted myself. And even if we forget about all that, you’re not the Winter Soldier anymore; not that you ever _ were _, but they removed the brainwashing in Wakanda. If I was scared of you, I’d have to be scared of everyone else in this compound. Being scared is really tiring.”

Bucky goes to his room after, and turns down the thermostat. 

The truth is that Steve would probably be disappointed in him. 

  


Bucky doesn’t usually listen to the chatter over the comms: but in the middle of the mission on Friday, through the bustle of conversation, he hears a whoop that matches Bruce’s timbre and a follow-up from Sam - “_ nice shot, man _!”

He smiles a little. 

  


_ When you think about your future now, you see another face in it; you hear a distinctive laugh, see the one-sided lilt of a smile, hear the sound of typing and yawns. You see the middle of many nights, the lights still on, a cup of cocoa in your hand that you set at his desk. _ If you drink coffee this late, you’ll never sleep _ , you say. _

You’re not sleeping either, _ he says. _

Which is why I’m drinking cocoa, too. 

_ When you dream, you see Steve again. You feel guilty, so guilty, because Steve has been everything in your life for so long; you don’t think you’re ready to move on yet, and you’re terrified, but in ship hangars and dancehalls and cafés in your dreams he seems to tell you time after time that you need to take a step forward on your own, now. You tell him you need him. He tells you you don’t. _

  


Bucky doesn’t think he should go to any conferences; he still doesn’t think that he should be a public face for the Avengers, but Bruce is insistent and Sam keeps saying no and for some reason _ everyone is somewhere else _ \- and so he agrees. It’s in Wakanda as part of its still-ongoing efforts to connect more with the outside world, and the conference unites all sorts of scientists, civilians, heroes, and government officials from across the world to discuss efforts to keep Earth safe. 

“You’re an Avenger,” Bruce says. “You have the right to go.” 

Bruce and Happy have a long argument about using a private plane - Bucky hears Bruce put out a long and impassioned argument about how they should be flying commercially, not privately, but Happy could go toe to toe with Tony, and so Bruce doesn’t last long. They fly privately. Bruce sleeps most of the way, but he wakes up to snack. 

“I know you’re nervous about this,” Bruce says, unprompted. “But - don’t let this be about you. Don’t let anyone try and psych you out, or be mean to you. You’re at the front lines protecting the Earth. This isn’t about _ you _; it’s about the people you’re protecting.” He hands a carton of chocolate milk to Bucky to open for him; Bucky can’t help but smile as he twists the cap off, taking a sip first before he hands it back. He doesn’t really know when it started, but he seems to have an easy intimacy with Bruce now. 

It had been hard to admit at first, but - he likes Bruce, actually. He does. Bruce is a good friend. 

“After the whole Hulk thing, when I went to science conferences, it was like I wasn’t Dr. Bruce Banner with the PhDs anymore. I was someone to gawp at. People didn’t want to talk to me about my work - just about the Hulk. So I know what it’s like, but I was there to talk about my work, and so that’s what I did.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says softly.

There’s a big reception at the start, with champagne so expensive that Bucky feels as if he needs to find a person to tell that he isn’t classy enough for this; there’s also finger food and Bucky doesn’t know what any of it is, just that it tastes good. He talks to a few people he hasn’t met before, and then to T’Challa, who’s surprisingly nice to him considering everything; he talks to Shuri for a while, too, and by the time the reception dies down and he heads back to his and Bruce’s hotel room, he’s pleasantly buzzed and feels a warmth spreading in his chest. 

He hasn’t felt like he belongs in a long time; but there, in that room, at that reception, he began to feel as if it was okay for him to be there. And when he talks to Bruce, he starts to feel more and more like an Avenger, and that it’s okay for him to be one. 

Bruce is already in their room, unclipping his bow tie. Bucky doesn’t know how to tie one either, actually; Steve had always done his for him. Bruce looks over and smiles. “Hey,” he says. “Did that go well?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a smile that’s unstoppable and earnest. He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and loosens his tie. “I had a really nice time, actually. Thanks for bringing me here, and for having faith in me.” 

Bruce looks like he’s thinking about something to say, but Bucky crosses the space between them and takes Bruce’s face in his hands and kisses him. Bruce’s cheeks are soft, and are his lips, and Bucky can feel him break out into a grin as he kisses back. 

He’s not Steve. He doesn’t have Steve’s hard edges or jawline or his muscles or his confidence; he doesn’t have Steve’s gravity or grimness, and he’s no super soldier, and Bruce isn’t going to be inspiring generations of children in promotional videos anytime soon (except, perhaps, for science students; God, that’s a good thought). Bucky hasn’t known him since they were kids. 

But he’s Bruce. He’s smart, and he’s clumsy, and he wrings his hands and never goes to sleep; his fashion sense consists of the same shirt in different colours and the occasional jumper, and despite everything he’s been through he always has time to speak to people. He’s nothing but kind. He does his best to see the good in people, and even though everything seems stacked against his favour, he’s leading the Avengers as best he can. 

Bucky’s first love has always been Steve, and it always will be, but- 

He’s destined to be in love with Bruce, and he’s starting to make peace with that. 

Bruce kisses him the next time, when they’re both in pajamas and don’t have breath that smells of appetisers. When he wakes up, his curls are mad with bedhead, and they eat french toast together in sweatpants, and Bucky thinks that he could get used to being in love. 

  


_ The love of your life feels like exhilaration. _

**Author's Note:**

> thank u so much for reading! i love these nerds sm. as you may have noticed, the summary isn't a part of the fic but was part of a scrapped opener - but i couldn't bring myself to delete it, so i thought i might as well use it!
> 
> the title is from the lyrics of "the 2nd most beautiful girl in the world" (originally _she's unreal / exactly how it feels_). the snail mail version is honestly one of my fave songs to listen to while writing this pair 
> 
> the song that bruce sings in the dancehall is "[i will always think of you"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3OrqExOwr13y6UCI1LGhA4?si=JkRQwe4uTFeM3rV5FdjY3Q), from the bojack horseman soundtrack. it's well worth a listen


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